


Metro

by puny



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Other, Scourge Sisters, Vandalism, shenanigantics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 03:34:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puny/pseuds/puny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Public transportation: not colorful enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metro

The day you meet her is the day you flick your sleeping world between the eyes and run. 

-

Laughing alone on the subway at night is a sound unlike any other, you think. You make this a documented fact, file it away in the endless pavonine submarine that is the brain of Terezi Pyrope. The sizzling strip lighting smells like dead gnats and briefcase lining. Your cackles wrap slapstick-style around grubby poles and ricochet off plastic seats. 

The doors open and close contemptuously at you. You howl double-edged hilarity at them– doors, foolish doors, all you do is slide upon rails, day after day, trapping ankles and coattails and suitcases of C4. You pity their pneumatics. 

The train pulls to its eigthteenth stop like a gigantic worm popping in on its gigantic worm neighbor for a gigantic cup of worm sugar. You have the least intention of getting off. Rather, you select a can from the knapsack by your side and hold it up to your face, licking up its length– precise squigglies of fine print, like the shaved-off stubble of lieutenants against your tongue; a logo, bubbly and loquacious; and the hollowness of the cap, a synthetic, synthetic shade of vermilion. You hook your bottom teeth under the plastic, popping it off, and there's your prize: a striated nipple of plastic, never-ever-ever-not-even-once-used white. 

 _Excellent._  

You shake that can like it has done a very, very personal wrong to the pet chinchilla you do not own, reveling in the electric shimmy of the ball bearing inside. The gratuitous shinging noise, however, does not completely cover the sound of boots falling against diamond-embossed sheet metal. 

Turning, can still jiggling in one hand, you do the thing where you arch one eyebrow high as if to say _What species are you?_ The newcomer smells like leather and denim and unbrushed hair and asphalt. She beholds you, can in one hand, undeniable aura of mischief, and grins as she flops sideways onto the row of chairs. 

"Well?" she says, grinning a little, and you give her a face-gashing grin of your own. 

"Well!" 

You turn back to your subway window. The can is shook, the shatterproof glass is dismally blank, and the audience of one awaits. Your stance is wide. You are an artist before a canvas as horizonless and accepting as the wind. Your right hand comes up, presses the tiny lever, and that glorious sibilant hissing, that hopeless vermilion, appears from nowhere. You scrawl a dragonlike thing on the glass, a gape-jawed squiggle-scaled vaguely serpentine atrocity. You step aside so Tall Kicky Stranger can behold. 

"What the hell is that even supposed to be?" Her head is cocked, brows disappointed. You are undaunted in the least. 

"A masterpiece!" Your sinuses are giddy with red. You write in number-riddled capitals arcing above the beast. I W4S H3R3 4ND NOW SO 4R3 YOU! The person across from you remains an unknown quantity, posed and slung back, but you don't care in the least about her. 

"Just my luck." She rests her tangled head on the rim of the seat. "The one person on my ride is a bugfuck stranger." 

You laugh at that. Bugfuck indeed! B3 TH3 STR4NG3R D4NG3R and BUGFUCK CONQU15T4DOR3SS, respectively, join the sides of the subway car. You companion is grinning now. She looks tired, and suddenly you want to fix that. Tired is an illusion! Tired is no thing when sizzlebangsmash red exists! You pick up the knapsack, pull its maw wide, and proffer its contents to her like a helpful little miscreant butler: a spectrum of colors, all onomatopoeic in intensity. She looks at you and at the colors. Her eyebrow comes down off its high horse (high forehead?) and she draws out a thick blue, soft as playing darts, and grips it as she looks up at you fleetingly for instruction and affirmation. 

"You shake it!" you beam, "The more you do, the less dripsappy it is!"

She tests it out with a swath of blue across the seats that drips a là slasher film. You grin and elbow her aside to spray L1F3 15 FOR CHUMPS on top of it. The two of you step back , admire the red underlined with gaping blue, and calmly proceed to go berserk. 

It doesn't take the two of you long to cloud over the windows in griffinage and doodles. Her writing is spiky-smooth, her drawings reminiscent of fractals and goth revival. W34R FOOT13 P4J4M4S TO KN1F3 F1GHTS AND 8ANDOLIERS TO STORYTIME! sprawls across the ceiling– you're not sure how the two of you managed that. She's done up one end wall in vacillating question marks, AUTHORITIES ARE 8AFFLED taking center stage. You've done up six or so seats with TUSH GO3S H3R3 or D3RR13R3 GO3S H3R3 or et cetera, and everywhere haphazard dragons scream crimson from flamethrower maws. She's now detailing an intricate web that stretches from floor to roof to emergency exit as you swirl double helixes up the grip poles. Finished with that, she leaps atop of the grimy seats and declares "AHOY, LOSERS, THE WORLD IS OUR INCINERATOR!", proceeding to scribble it upon the wall as you choke on cackles in a corner. 

The two of you have blown through your colors of choice as well as fuchsia, turquoise, and Day-Glo orange. The subway car is a riot of hue on plastic. You finish off the can of teeth-hurty lime and look over at the person you've just lost your noncorporeal shit with, and you both stand with your backs against the exit and admire. You are tasting the rainbow. You are mummifying yourself with the rainbow in clashing ribbons, you are drag racing with the zing of the rainbow in your too-tight arteries, you are screaming the rainbow to the heavens and back. 

The intercom, finally, tragically, screeches to life. **You are on camera. You are on camera. You are on camera.** Wordlessly, worldlessly, you let the voided cylinder of lime roll away from your hand, snatch up your bag, and run. Security officers are huffing up the steps right behind both of you. Turning, she flips them the double bird and you stick your tongue out, putting the thumbs of your wide-splayed hands to your ears. 

You pulse with blood that's not yours, and as far as the puddle of quicksilver your brain has become can tell, so does she. Your hands are stained and the city tastes like garbage and stars, concrete and seraphim. 

Car alarms blare and street lamps shutter off as you flee for no reason, or rather, from reason. You and stranger are a maelstrom of teeth and yowling kicks, a grit-laden sandstorm of screech and fight and crumpled tomorrows. 

A scourge. 


End file.
